Overkill
by coloradoandcolorado1
Summary: A serial killer is prowling London, his victims seemingly random. The murders are bizarre, gruesome even, but the killer always leaves a calling card: a black bow tied on the left wrist. As Sherlock and John investigate, Molly tries to help. But when her efforts attract the killer's attention, someone unexpected may be the next victim. A Sherlolly mystery. Not related to S3.
1. Chapter 1

Every time I ever receive an alert that you have reviewed or favorited one of my stories or that you are following me, I always say, "Thank you." And I do thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

As always I don't do this for money (though I would if you paid me). I own nothing. These characters aren't mine.

~s~s~s~s~s

_She's a screamer all right—and not in a good way._

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade reluctantly looked from the cracked screen of his mobile to the screaming woman across the street. As she knelt in front of the River Mills apartment building, the woman's traditional _hijab_ spilled over the sidewalk like a pool of oil. In the coming nightfall, her huddled form blended in with the growing shadows even as she keened like a banshee. Rocking back and forth, oblivious to the well-meaning crowd of family and friends who surrounded her, Merna Yasrey pressed the palms of her hands against the sides of her head as if she could squeeze from her mind what was happening before her eyes.

_Can't really blame her_, Lestrade mused. _I might do the same if I just learned my daughter had been murdered_.

This wasn't the first time grieving family members had unexpectedly shown up at a murder scene. He'd probably have it happen again soon the rate his caseload was growing. But the more he tried to block out the woman's sobbing, the more the plaintive sound cut the cool evening air. Lestrade finished sending his text before gesturing Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan to his side.

"Tell me again how the mother found out?"

Donovan's dark hair waved down her back as she shook her head in disgust. "The man who discovered the body knew the girl's family. He called them right after he called us. I would like to give him bloody hell."

Lestrade sighed. "Nothing we can do about that now. What else do we know besides her name and age?"

"Didn't get a lot from mum, not in the shape she's in, but her uncle had a lot to say." Donovan scanned her notes. "Sixth form. No boyfriend. Three younger brothers. Mum works in an accounting office, dad died last year of a heart attack. Family emigrated from Egypt ten years ago."

She snapped her notebook shut. "According to the uncle, Akila was a good girl. Never had a spot of trouble with her."

"Did Anderson find her mobile?"

"No, just her school ID. Her uncle said she had one, though."

Lestrade rubbed his chin, aware that this much five o'clock stubble made him appear more haggard than attractive. And he felt every inch of exhausted. "Check her school to see if she was seen leaving with anyone. And get the CCTV."

It was worth a try. Maybe he would get lucky. Maybe someone saw the girl walk off with the person who ended her life so brutally and could identify him straightaway.

_Yeah, right._

Narrowing his eyes, he watched Anderson and the SOCO team swarm the parking lot and rusted rubbish skip where the body had been found like ants on spilled sugar. Lestrade knew his men were good, but they weren't the very best.

And he needed the very best working this case.

Donovan loudly cleared her throat. "You've sent for The Freak, haven't you?"

She routinely questioned his judgment regarding Sherlock Holmes' involvement in official police inquiries, and he usually ignored her. But this time was altogether different. The stakes were too high.

Lestrade stood nose to nose with the junior officer. "That's not your call to make, is it? We didn't get anything from the other scenes—I need physical evidence from this one. If that means bringing him in, so be it."

Donovan refused to lower her eyes, and Lestrade wasn't through yet.

"You saw that black ribbon tied her wrist, just like it was on the others. We've got a serial killer, now don't we? And from the looks of it, he's going to be off-the-charts bloody insane. Do you want to be the one to tell the mums of future victims we could've prevented their murders if we'd only consulted Sherlock Holmes? Because there will be more victims."

"Yes, sir," Donovan grumbled.

Lestrade broke his glare when Mrs. Yasrey's wailing rose in volume. "And for God's sake, can someone go see to that poor woman?"

"Yes, sir." Donovan waved the officers on crowd control in the mother's direction, but the sobs didn't stop.

Lestrade grimaced. He knew she wasn't done screaming yet.

~s~s~s~s~s~

"A serial killer's obviously at work, and you just now are bringing me in?"

Sherlock Holmes let the question hang in the air as he brushed past the detective inspector and strode toward the crime scene.

"You couldn't have prevented this murder." John Watson walked at Sherlock's side. "Greg said the victims have nothing connecting them."

"That he knows of," Sherlock muttered none too quietly.

"Shut up, Sherlock," Lestrade said.

Sherlock observed John sneak a glance at Lestrade's ashen features as the trio strode toward the cordoned-off area. _He probably thinks Lestrade's ill, but he only has worked himself into an emotional state of agitation_. _He normally remains detached at crime scenes. There must be something particular disturbing him about this case._

John was like a dog with a bone. "You can't think you could've saved this girl."

"I don't think that at all," Sherlock said. "All I meant was if Lestrade had told me about the other killings when they happened, I wouldn't have been so bored this week."

He recognized the silence that followed. It meant he had said something "not good," something that would have made Molly tug on his sleeve and John pinch the bridge of his nose, much like he was doing now.

Lestrade stopped midstride. "Do me a favor, yeah? Don't tell the grieving mom that her daughter's murder is a source of entertainment for you, yeah?"

It was nearly pitch dark when they reached the body.

"Not so fast, Freak." Donovan handed him a pair of booties to slip over his well-polished leather shoes.

"I never wear—"

"You do today," Lestrade growled dangerously.

Lights brought in to illuminate the area switched on as Sherlock and John bent over the girl's lifeless body. Sherlock noted that her school uniform was soiled with blood, but the ground beneath her body wasn't. John focused on the black ribbon tied in an elaborate bow on her left wrist and the large "X" carved into the back of her hand.

"These cuts on her neck are jagged, uneven, on both sides of her neck and the front and the back." Sherlock quickly took out his magnifying glass. "There's glass imbedded in them. Tiny fragments but still there."

"This wasn't an ordinary knife," Anderson commented as he approached. "Certainly not the same one the cut the 'X' on her hand."

"It wasn't a knife at all," Sherlock replied.

"What type of weapon would do this?" John tried to remain professional as he turned his attention to the wounds, but his horror was on full display. "She's practically decapitated."

"What have you found, Anderson?" Sherlock said with no hint of sarcasm.

"Cause of death . . . well, she bled out, didn't she? No apparent sexual assault, but we'll have to wait for the autopsy to be sure. We'll go over her book bag and clothes for trace evidence. There's some glass on the ground but no other evidence. As for the skip, it's half full, mainly with the contents of someone's flat."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "What exactly?"

"An old mattress, a chair, a large picture frame, an area rug."

"Let me see the frame."

One of Anderson's colleagues retrieved a large, rectangular frame, ornate in design and nearly two feet long.

Sherlock looked it over once. "It's not a frame. See the pieces of glass remaining in the corners here and here? They are coated with a reflective substance, most likely nontoxic silver or aluminum. This was a mirror. This is the murder weapon."

John gaped at him. "How?"

"The killer smashed it over her head, shattering the glass, then moved it back and forth like so." Sherlock slipped the empty frame over John's head and moved it side to side to demonstrate. "It explains how shards of glass ripped open her neck on all sides. No doubt the slivers of glass in her cuts will have traces of the same reflective coating."

"Bag the frame," Lestrade barked at Anderson. "Search the skip again."

"Wouldn't someone have heard her scream if she was killed here?" John asked.

"Where's the blood? Where's all the glass from the mirror?" Sherlock replied. "She wasn't killed here."

"I know she wasn't killed here. This is where she was dumped." Lestrade flushed red to the roots of his salt-and-pepper hair.

"Of course you know that." John eyed the DI carefully.

"Donovan is rounding up surveillance footage," Lestrade said roughly. "Hopefully we'll have an image of the bastard that brought Akila here."

John watched as the body bag was zipped closed. "Smashing a mirror over her head? It's so savage. Why carve an X on her hand and tie a black ribbon around her wrist? That's . . . that's . . ."

"Crazy," Anderson finished for him.

"The black ribbon and the X are the killer's signature," Lestrade said. "We found them on Pete Marchand, the first victim, and on Theresa McKeon."

Sherlock thoughtfully tapped his pointer fingers to his chin. "How were they murdered?"

Lestrade turned toward the street. "Let's go to my office."

~s~s~s~s~s~

If John had thought the murderer was crazy before, the crime scene photos of the other victims confirmed it. Sherlock paced behind where John stood in front of Lestrade's desk, staring at the digital photos in front of him.

"I . . . don't understand this," John murmured.

Pete Marchand, thirty years old and as burly as a rugby player, wore unflattering khaki walking shorts that were a size too small and an argyle sweater vest in pastels over a white polo shirt. On his left wrist was a black bow and the distinctive X was carved into the back of his hand. A heavy rope was wound tightly around his bare feet and ankles.

"Cause of death?" Sherlock asked not breaking stride.

"He was strangled with that same rope. Toxicology shows he was sedated. Someone of his size would have put up a good fight otherwise." Lestrade leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Where was he found?"

"Outside of a playground very early Monday morning. Luckily the park was empty and no kids were around."

The consulting detective paused. "Why would that have mattered?"

Lestrade didn't even acknowledge the question. "He was a bartender. Single, no kids. A cousin made the identification. From all accounts, he was a very friendly bloke."

Sherlock resumed pacing. "His clothes are all wrong. Wrong for the time of year, wrong for a grown man of his size and occupation."

John nodded rapidly. "Yes, I see what you mean."

"We showed the clothes to his cousin. He said there was no way Pete would ever wear something like that," Lestrade said.

"So . . . the killer's dressing them up?" The doctor pushed the photos away in disgust.

"When I got the case, I thought it could be some kind of fetish thing, you know? Role-playing and the like gone wrong. But then we found Theresa." Sliding a manila file across his desk toward Sherlock, Lestrade stood and gazed out of his office into the bullpen. "Theresa McKeon. She was twenty-four, a drug addict and prostitute. She was found on the bank of the Thames on Wednesday afternoon."

"Good God." John thumbed through the photos as Sherlock handed them to him.

Theresa wore a modest white nightgown that matched the color of her unearthly pale skin. Her strawberry blonde hair had been cut off unevenly in chunks. Again, the black bow and X adorned her left hand.

"Is the white substance on her skin paint then?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade didn't turn around. "She was covered in it. And before you ask, the cause of death was a stab wound to the heart. Like Akila, she wasn't killed where she was found, but SOCO located a book in the vicinity of the body. It was _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_."

"This just gets stranger," John said.

Sherlock stared intently at the ceiling. "The killer lures them somewhere he can kill them and change their clothes without risking being discovered. It was somewhere a grown man, a prostitute, and a schoolgirl would have felt safe going to. Three seemingly unrelated victims, three different causes of death, three dump sites. And no apparent motive."

"He's a bloody psychopath," John exclaimed. "He doesn't need a motive."

Lestrade shook his head and walked back to his desk. "We thought there was a connection between Pete and Theresa because she may have gone into his pub, but now with Akila . . . we're back to square one."

"Why haven't I read about any of this is the paper?" John scratched his head.

"We've kept the details out of the press, and they don't seem too interested in the murder of a hooker or a bartender. But the murder of a schoolgirl? They will be all over it." Lestrade turned to lock eyes with the consulting detective. "Today is Friday. If the pattern holds, we'll have another victim on Sunday. We have to hurry. The murders are random, and we have no idea who he will target next."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin smile. "I do love a good mystery."


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: My version of Mary is not based on BBC's _Sherlock_. Thank you for your reviews!

~s~s~s~s~s~

"Dr. Hooper, I am annoyed with you."

To the casual observer, Sherlock Holmes could have appeared a little unhinged.

Why else would he dramatically thrust open the double doors to the pristine lab at St. Bart's morgue, the collar to his dark Belstaff coat turned up to a nonexistent wind, and announce his feelings to an empty room? Even John Watson, who followed a step behind carrying two cups of coffee, muttered, "Really, Sherlock?" But the detective knew Molly Hooper's propensity to comply with his requests—and he also knew his voice carried. He was rewarded a few seconds later by a clattering noise from the adjoining room and his pathologist storming in the other door.

Having clearly just finished Akila Yasrey's autopsy, Molly still wore universal precautions—rubber gloves, cap and gown, a plastic apron, and shoe covers. While her body was hidden from him, Sherlock could still appreciate her form.

"I come into work at first light on my day off because you insist I am the only one who can do this autopsy—"

"Dr. Prichard is incompetent." He sniffed.

"—and you're annoyed with _me_?" Molly held his stare from behind her protective face shield.

"Two victims of a serial killer came through your morgue this week, and _you _didn't tell me," Sherlock countered. "I have every right to be annoyed."

Molly removed her rubber gloves with a loud snap. "Do you mean the Black Bow Murders?"

"Um, the Black Bow Murders?" John set one of the to-go cups on the counter and gestured for Molly to take it.

"That's what everyone around here is calling them," she said, continuing to take off and properly dispose of her protective gear. "Dr. Prichard did the first victim's autopsy, and apparently he told quite a few people the gruesome details, but I didn't even know there was a first victim until after I did Theresa McKeon's autopsy. That's when Greg told me it was probably a serial killer."

"You could have mentioned it to me." Sherlock sulked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Sent a text. Told me at dinner. Pillow talk."

Her lips curved into a smile. "Pillow talk? About a serial killer?"

He was struck anew by how attractive Molly was. She possessed a rare natural beauty that was simple and understated. She didn't need make up at all, but when she did wear it, she became unforgettable. He gazed into the brown eyes that could see to the very core of him.

"It wouldn't be the first time the subject has come up in that setting." He brushed a wisp of chestnut-brown hair that had escaped from the bun on top of her head out of her face.

A charming flush rose in Molly's cheeks as she looked meaningfully toward John, who was doing his best to read his texts and ignore the couple.

"Thank you for the coffee, John. I can always count on you to be considerate." She took a long drink, then gave Sherlock a small grin.

Assured that she was no longer upset with him, he continued. "You've finished the autopsy."

"I put the time of death only an hour before she was found. Her last meal was a tuna sandwich and a beer."

"Are you sure? Greg told us that Akila's family claimed she was a 'good girl.'" John ran his hand across his brow. "Was she assaulted?"

"She wasn't raped, but I did find an area of hyperpigmentation on her left shoulder and below her right ear."

"Love bites? But she didn't have a boyfriend," John said.

"Teenagers lie all the time." Sherlock sounded exasperated stating the obvious. "The police assumed she was taken as she left school. It appears she was somewhere else, with someone else."

"She's the third victim." Molly winced at the thought. "Poor little girl."

"I didn't get to see the first two bodies _in situ_ or examine those dump sites before Lestrade's people marched over them, so I am hoping you will discover a commonality between all three victims' autopsies."

Molly let out a slow breath. "All right, but I can tell you now that the causes of death are completely different."

"Did you find traces of a sedative in Theresa McKeon?" Sherlock asked.

Molly walked briskly to her desk and brought the test results up on her laptop. "Yes. Didn't Greg tell you? I sent my report to him."

"He didn't mention it," John mused.

"I'll try to narrow down the specific sedative, but it may take a little while."

"Check this girl, too, for the sedative," Sherlock directed and before Molly could correct him, he added, "please."

"There's still a chance we can prevent the fourth murder," John began hopefully, but Sherlock cut him off.

"No, John. We don't have enough data to calculate the killer's motive or pattern. Undoubtedly there will be a fourth."

"You know," Molly said as she strolled over to Sherlock, "you could have texted about the sedative and the autopsies. You didn't have to come all the way over here."

Sherlock realized she was correct. "Hmmm."

"But then I wouldn't have been able to do this." She gave him a quick kiss. "Where are you off to?"

"John and I are going to talk to the families of the victims."

"Be careful," she said solemnly. "Both of you."

~s~s~s~s~s~

The taxi's windshield wipers had a hard time keeping up with the pelting rain as the dark car inched along in mounting London traffic. John scrolled through his texts, pausing to read one sent by Mary earlier in the day. When he first met her, she went by Sarah, a name Sherlock continuously butchered on the rare times he attempted to remember her name. He called her Susan, Sheryl, Sandy, and one random time, Olivia. But when he learned her full name—Sarah Louise Mary Morstan—Sherlock had latched on to calling her Mary, and it had stuck. Mary later confided in John that she went by Mary when she was growing up. She had only switched to Sarah when she entered university.

"Leave it to Sherlock to decide what my name will be." She had laughed warmly.

"I don't care what your name is as long as one day it will be Mrs. Watson," he had replied.

Grinning at the memory, John opened the next message. "Pete Marchand's cousin is meeting us at his flat to let us in. What are you hoping to find there?"

The look of intense concentration in Sherlock's eyes melted as he came back from wherever he had been focusing. "When are you going to propose?"

John had gotten used to his friend's non-sequitur comments over the years, but this time he was completely surprised.

"What?"

"When are you planning on asking Mary to marry you?"

"How did you know? I haven't mentioned it. I only made the last payment on the ring on Monday . . . that's it, isn't it?" John's voice rose in volume. "You've been going into my bank records online again, haven't you?"

"I like Mary." Sherlock straightened his blue muffler. "I approve of your engagement."

"Well, thank you very much," John huffed. "I always want to base my marriage proposals on your good opinion."

~s~s~s~s~s~

Andy James was a short, fire hydrant of a man whose trapezoid muscles were so thick from years of lifting weights, it looked to John as if the twentysomething had no neck at all. The younger man stood with his barrel chest puffed out and constantly ran his hand over his shock of red hair. He eyed the detective as Sherlock examined Pete's DVD collection.

"What is he looking for?" he asked John.

"Not sure yet."

Pete Marchand's flat was decked out with every imaginable entertainment electronic. A large flat-screen television dominated the main wall while on the bookshelf next to it was a tablet and a laptop computer. John scanned the framed Olympic posters decorating the walls, but it was hard to see them clearly in the darkened room. Lined curtains covered every window.

"I don't understand what a private detective has to do with this," Andy grumbled loudly. "The police have been through here."

"I am not the police," Sherlock said disdainfully. "They wouldn't search a murder victim's flat beyond what was staring them in the face."

He pulled a few movie cases from the bookshelf and shook them. "Why does he have children's DVDs?"

Andy thought hard. "They may be Marsha's. She's a woman he dated a few months ago. She had a couple of kids."

Sherlock picked up a case still in its plastic wrapping off the marble coffee table. "_Peter Pan_?"

"Pete's nickname," Andy said with a sad smile. "We used to ask him where his green tights were. Someone probably got him that as a joke."

"Tell me about Pete," Sherlock said, looking over the TV's connections to the surround sound speakers and two different gaming systems.

Andy's face grew animated. "Super friendly bloke. The type of guy that you could call in the middle of the night and say you needed to borrow money and he'd be there for you. He had tons of friends."

"Did he like to have his friends over?" Sherlock asked, still focusing on the electronics.

"He had people in and out of here all the time."

Sherlock crossed the room and studied the keypad to the alarm system Andy had turned off when they arrived.

"Why all the security? Triple locks on the door, the motion sensors?"

"Not the best neighborhood, I guess." Andy shrugged. "I only had his extra key and the system code in case of emergency. Or if Pete was away and needed someone to take care of the fish."

"Ah yes the fish." Sherlock strode to the large aquarium that rested against the wall leading to the kitchen. In the darkened room, its lighting glowed eerily. "One would have to wonder why he would need such a large aquarium for only two, no, three little fish."

John watched as the rainbow-colored fish darted around the two large, decorative sunken ships. Sherlock removed the top of the aquarium, rolled up his sleeve, and plunged his arm into the water, bringing up one ship at a time.

"Necessity is indeed the mother of invention. Dealers can get very creative in where they hide their drugs."

"What are you on about?" Andy exclaimed angrily.

Sherlock shook the water from his hand, then opened the fake bottom of both ships. Out of each fell a clear, waterproof bag filled with tiny plastic bags containing white powder. Before his companions could say anything, Sherlock went back to the DVDs.

"With his up-to-the-minute electronics, he certainly had the ability to stream movies. Why would he still have all of these DVDs?" Sherlock cracked open a few cases and dumped out more little bags of white powder.

"How did you know?" John asked.

"People coming and going, parties, tight security, windows blocked with heavy curtains so neighbors can't see in, expensive items that he couldn't possibly afford on a bartender's salary," Sherlock rattled off. "Drug dealer. Obviously."

Andy sank into one of the plush leather chairs facing the television, a thin line of perspiration crossing his forehead. "I didn't know he was dealing, I swear!"

"You obviously attended his parties, so you did in fact know he dealt drugs, but I don't care about that. When did you see him last?" Sherlock asked.

Andy sighed. "The day before his body was found. I stopped by the pub early to see if he wanted to go to the gym with me after he got off work, but he said he had errands to run. I told him to text me if he changed his mind."

"Were these 'errands' to deliver drugs?" John asked.

"I don't know, really. They may have been."

"The police haven't found his car," Sherlock stated.

Andy shook his head. "They haven't found it or his mobile either. His whole life was on that mobile."

"Akila's mobile was missing, too," John observed.

Andy's shoulders slumped. "He may have sold drugs, but he was a good guy. Who would have wanted to kill him and . . . and humiliate him by putting him in that stupid outfit? Mr. Holmes, I'll help you however I can. Just find this bastard."


	3. Chapter 3

The steady rain became a curtain of gray mist as Sherlock and John parted ways with Andy outside Pete Marchand's flat. John eyed the dark clouds brooding heavily in the distance, wishing he had worn a heavier jacket; it would certainly rain again later.

Impatiently signaling for a cab, Sherlock's breath came out in staccato clouds as he muttered, "Pete's mobile wasn't found."

John blew on his cupped hands to warm them. "I've heard psychopaths sometimes keep something that belongs to their victims. Akilah's was missing, too. Maybe the killer wanted their mobiles as souvenirs."

"You've been watching too many detective shows on the telly." Sherlock snorted derisively as he finally flagged down a cab.

"Where are we going?" John slammed his door shut.

"Finchingfield in East Essex County, Theresa McKeon's last known permanent address," Sherlock replied.

The cab made good time and they soon pulled up in front of a picturesque house situated behind several large yew trees.

"Nice home, that," John murmured thoughtfully.

Roused from deep thought, Sherlock looked at the house with disdain. "You're wondering how a heroin-addicted prostitute came from such an fine, upstanding neighborhood? I wonder why more addicts don't come from such families."

"Always pleasant, aren't you?" John said as the pair walked up the brick walkway.

Sherlock stopped abruptly. "Around back."

Leading the way, the detective strode across the boggy grass, heavy with the latest rain. As they turned the corner, John detected the acrid odor of tobacco that surely had attracted Sherlock's keen senses. The smell drifted on a light breeze up the long, flowing lawn. They followed it to one of the sweetest gardens John had ever seen. Veils of roses elegantly draped over a white arbor while red and blue hydrangeas bordered a brick patio. Someone had treasured this garden, John could tell, but nature was coming into its own on its borders. Rambling vines sent shoots out into the grass, and stray branches shot upward from the hedges, rising above the height of their fellows.

In the far corner of the lawn, an older man wearing a striped jumper paced slowly, taking a long drag on his cigarette every few steps. He was stocky and plain with a white fringe of sparse hair. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses interrupted his round, ruddy face.

"Who are you?" he asked, toeing out his cigarette on the grass.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said as they approached. "We're working in consultation with Scotland Yard on your daughter's murder. I have questions for you and your wife."

The man regarded them blankly. "I know who you are, Mr. Holmes. I've seen you on the news. I suppose you had best come in the house."

He led them up a small ramp to the back door, which opened into a bright yellow kitchen outfitted with stainless-steel appliances. The cheerful wallpaper border, decorated with chickens, wrapped the room at the height of the chair rail; a few ceramic roosters held court on top of the oak cabinets.

"Would you care for some tea?" the man asked out of social convention.

"Yes, thank you."

Surprised at Sherlock's quick acceptance, John snuck a glance at his friend but Sherlock focused only on the man who had hesitated for a moment before switching on the stove.

"Your garden is very lovely," John said politely.

The man slowly nodded. "My wife is the most talented of women."

Leaning against the counter, he stood silently, his heavy breathing echoing in the silence. John thought he might have forgotten about them until the bright brass kettle blew a high, thin whistle.

"If the police called in you, they must have no idea who did it," he said.

"We are all working very hard on the case." John tried to sound positive.

"Is that so?" The man's eyebrows raised a degree but no emotion reached his eyes.

"I would like to speak to you and your wife about your daughter's death." Sherlock watched their host carefully.

"I have no faith in the police, Mr. Holmes. Do you want to know why?" The older man's expression remained stony. "They are so dimwitted they can't even get the basic facts correct. Theresa wasn't my daughter; she was my stepdaughter. Her dad died when she was a toddler. My name is Dave Wilson."

John sensed Sherlock stiffen in anger; he was sure Lestrade would be on the receiving end of Sherlock's harsh comments regarding this omission later.

Dave gestured for them to take a seat at the small table near the bay window that looked over the roses. He set piping hot cups of tea in front of them; John gladly drank his, Sherlock left his untouched.

"Theresa was twelve when I met Leslie. I may not seem to be the type of man to fall in love at first sight, but I did. It didn't matter to me if Leslie already had a daughter. I was honored to be Theresa's stepfather.

"Leslie and I married a year later, and the three of us were happy. For a time. We had great plans, Leslie and me. We were going to travel the continent after Theresa graduated. It would be our 'grand tour of Europe.' We had even picked out a villa in Tuscany. But that didn't happen, did it? Theresa never graduated. Europe was forgotten. Everything revolved around Theresa, getting her into rehab, finding her after she ran away from rehab, and so on."

John made a sympathetic noise. "Why did she . . .?"

"Become a prostitute? To support her drug habit." Dave stirred his tea absently. "It started with marijuana. I caught her several times. Then she started drinking, skipping school. She saw how she was breaking her mother's heart, but Theresa didn't stop. She got mixed up with the wrong crowd, as they say. She ran away. By the time she turned 18, she was a full-blown addict."

"When did you see Theresa last?" Sherlock asked.

"Several months ago. I tried to convince her to come see her mum, but she refused."

"Is your wife available? I'd like to speak to her," Sherlock said.

"No." Dave's firm tone had a bite.

"She's ill, I know, but it is vitally important to my investigation," Sherlock said.

Dave's head jerked up. "How did you know Leslie is sick?"

John sighed in resignation to what would be another one of Sherlock's rapid-fire explanations.

"A kitchen made for someone who loves to cook, but there's a thin coating of dust on the counter and your bin in the corner is filled with takeout containers. No one has cooked in here in a long time. Every detail of the garden was planned with care, but it is now neglected. You aren't the gardener; if you were, you wouldn't put out your cigarettes in the lawn. The ramp leading to the garden was built in the last year, meaning someone who enjoys the patio has to be taken out in a wheelchair. Your nicotine-stained fingers show you are a long-time smoker. Why are you smoking in the garden? Because there is oxygen in use in the home."

Dave stood and poured his tea down the drain. "You are correct, Mr. Holmes. But I still can't allow you to speak to Leslie."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded.

Slowly, Dave faced him. "She doesn't know Theresa is dead."

"She doesn't know?" John faltered. "You haven't told her?"

Dave's eyes grew flinty. "No, and I don't plan to."

"Why the hell not?" John's voice rose. "That is her daughter!"

"You want to know why? I'll show you."

The entryway was filled with stacks of books and newspapers, boxes and odd pieces of furniture. They followed Dave to a small library to the right of the stairs that had been emptied to accommodate a hospital bed. Multiple prescription bottles covered a desk that had been shoved under a window. Near the doorway where they stood was a wheel chair. Oxygen flowed through tubes to a thin figure that lay unmoving under a blanket. John took in the sight with a heavy heart.

"No, gentlemen, I won't wake Leslie to tell her about Theresa," Dave whispered brokenly. "The cancer has metastasized. The doctor has given her a week."

The three men returned to the entryway where John uncomfortably tried to find some words of comfort for the heartbroken man. He didn't get the chance.

"So Theresa never came to see her mother in these last few weeks?" Sherlock asked unemotionally, examining a few items on the hall table.

"I know Leslie saw her before her health declined so rapidly. She gave her money."

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Wilson?" Sherlock asked.

"I was a teacher, but I retired years ago. Ever since she was diagnosed, I have been Leslie's full-time caregiver."

Sherlock eyed a stack of books. "Art appreciation for the beginner, the history of the Crimean War, how to make homemade beer? That is quite an assortment of interests."

"Jack of all trades, master of none," Dave said wryly. "Some of these books are Leslie's, some are mine. I've been trying to box them up for donation, but . . . well, it hasn't been a priority lately."

"Do you have a picture of Theresa that we might have?" Sherlock asked.

"Not a recent one, but I do have a picture of her and her mother somewhere in here." Dave rummaged through a box near the front door, knocking over a stack of crossword puzzle books in the process. "Do you do puzzles, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I do not find them challenging."

"It's a strange thing about puzzles. The human mind wants to plunge right in and put the puzzle together. I'm sure it's like you and the mysteries you solve. I've spent hours doing them as I've sat with Leslie. I tried that other one . . . Sudoku? But I always come back to my puzzles. They keep my mind active."

"I'm sure it's fascinating."

Dave pulled another box from under a table. "Like trying to find a needle in a haystack, isn't it? Ah, here it is."

He handed the framed photo to Sherlock. Taken in the garden in front of the hydrangeas, the picture was of two petite women, obviously mother and daughter. Theresa's strained smile could not conceal the fact she didn't want her picture taken. She purposefully leaned away from her mother who stood behind her, wrapping her arms tightly around the girl's tiny waist as if she could will Theresa to stay with her. Both women had blue eyes and the same shade of golden red hair.

Dave's eyes grew misty. "My wife is the most wonderful woman in the world. But if she has a fault, it is Theresa. She could never say no to her. One of Theresa's counselors in rehab said Leslie was an 'enabler,' and I guess she was. I wanted to cut Theresa off years ago and let her hit rock bottom. But I know Leslie was still giving her money."

"She sounds like a kind woman," John said gently.

For the first time that afternoon, Dave showed a real depth of feeling. "She's not just kind, she is brilliant. You could give her a hundred quid and in a month she would have made you a fortune. That's the kind of investment banker she was. But she had as many different interests as I do, and she was good at them all, like gardening. She was passionate about helping the underprivileged, about women's rights, about furthering her education. That's how we met. At a C. S. Lewis lecture series."

"Do you know who might have wanted to kill Theresa?" Sherlock interrupted.

The brief moment of animation was over. Dave shrugged. "Another junkie? Her pimp? Who knows? I'm sure she made enemies."

"I am very sorry for your loss." John extended his hand to the older man who gripped it tightly.

Dave turned from John and looked Sherlock up and down. "Do you think you can catch the person who did this?"

"I am certain of it," Sherlock replied.

"Mr. Holmes, I almost can believe you. If Leslie could, she would want to thank you for your service, so I'll do it for her. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Thank you, Dr. Watson."

The men rushed to their waiting cab, hoping to avoid the inevitable downpour of rain, but they didn't make it. The skies opened and they were soaked before even opening the cab door.

"Where to, mate?" asked the cabbie pleasantly.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock said.

"We haven't learned a lot," John said.

"Not true, John. I learned quite a bit about Theresa's lifestyle, her upbringing, her stepfather."

"How does any of that tie in with her murder?" John shook his head, trying to rid his hair of water. "We haven't learned anything that will prevent tomorrow's murder."

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and dialed a number. "It's me. I have something I need you to do."

s~s~s~s~s~

Done with work for the day, Molly sat on the couch in Sherlock's rooms dressed in a smart pair of dark boots, jeans, and an oversized cream sweater.

"Was it a bad day?" she asked, drawing her legs under her.

"Not bad, not good." Sherlock dropped down next to her.

Molly leaned in and pressed her cool lips against his. Her kisses were always softer than he expected, something startling, like the first drop of rain when the clouds roll in low and fast.

"I know you need to work right now," she said. "And because I am a distraction, I'll be going."

"You could help me work out some details," Sherlock proposed.

"In your mind palace? You don't let strangers in, remember?"

"John had to catch up with Mary for some stupid reason or another, so it would be a great service if you would listen to me hypothesize."

Molly grinned. "I can do that."

"The first victim, Pete, was a bartender who also sold drugs. He was by all accounts a very nice guy, for a dealer. But then, I have known some nice dealers myself."

"Sherlock," Molly cautioned him.

"Pete's body was found near a children's park. He wore short pants and an argyle sweater. His feet had been bound with rope."

"Women in Asia used to bind their feet because they thought small feet were beautiful," Molly offered. "The clothes are typical of what a mum would make a young boy wear to get his picture taken."

"Did someone want him to remain a little boy?" Sherlock mused. "Theresa, on the other hand, was stabbed in the heart, then her body was painted with common white household paint. She was dressed in a simple cotton nightgown and her hair was trimmed off."

"It sounds like she was being made into a sick virginal fantasy bride for someone. Maybe for Pete?" Molly asked. "I thought Greg mentioned to me that he thought Theresa was hanging around Pete's pub. Maybe they were a couple and no one knew."

"I have someone working on that angle." Sherlock closed his eyes. "Then we have Akila, who was practically decapitated with a mirror. How does she fit in? And what do the black bows and the cuts on their hands mean?"

Molly lightly caressed his brow. "I won't bother suggesting you rest or eat, so why don't you go change? I know this case is pretty baffling, but I also know you are the man who will solve it."


	4. Chapter 4

_He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen._

The youngest pathologist ever on staff at the prestigious St. Bart's Hospital stared into Sherlock Holmes' quicksilver blue-green eyes, speechless.

"Molly? Did you hear me? This is Sherlock Holmes," repeated Mike Stamford. "He's the one I told you about yesterday. He'll be in your lab quite often because I've given him . . . well, I guess I'll call them 'morgue privileges.'"

Hands clasped behind his back, Sherlock towered over her, summing her up and dismissing her in one glance. Her cheeks burning, Molly Hooper looked down at her sky blue jumper with the sweet appliqued daisies trailing out of the pockets.

"So you are . . . I see you're working on dating those bones . . . I know quite a bit about that, I mean I've studied . . ."

Smirking, Sherlock returned to his microscope. "I need three petri dishes."

Without giving it a second thought, Molly scurried off to help him.

This became their pattern: She would transform from an educated professional into a schoolgirl whenever he burst into her lab, and he would order her about with an imperious attitude. As much as her behavior—and his—frustrated her, Molly couldn't stop acquiescing to his demands or hiding the fact she was a little in love with him, even when he treated her rudely. With pale skin, raven curls, and angular features, Sherlock's distinctive appearance was less boyish than the men Molly typically found attractive, but if a man could be beautiful, Sherlock was he.

It wasn't until he revealed in a rare unguarded moment that she mattered to him—"You've always counted and I've always trusted you"—that Molly realized Sherlock actually considered her to be his friend. And it wasn't until he returned from a three-year, self-imposed exile to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network that Sherlock had gradually let her know he cared for her. Months passed before they reached what he termed an "understanding" (which to Molly meant relationship), and even longer still for him to physically let her know how much she meant to him.

He had been well worth everything she had put up with.

As the returning rain replaced the sounds of traffic from the street below, Molly thought Sherlock had drifted off. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, and he sighed softly as she caressed his forehead with feathery light strokes. Slowly she rose to her feet, careful not to disturb him.

But he wasn't asleep.

"Have I ever told you that the way I respond to your touch is a mystery I can't rationally solve?"

Molly smiled. "Maybe once or twice."

Sherlock's eyes opened. "I texted the Mesreys from the cab. They are planning to be home in an hour and a half and are expecting me then," he said, arching his back as he stretched.

Molly couldn't help but appreciate the movement of the muscles under his purple shirt. The rain must have been blowing sideways to make the fabric damp enough to cling to the long, lean lines of his torso.

"I'll be on my way then," she said and picked up her striped bag.

"Don't be ridiculous. You're coming with me," Sherlock stated.

"I am?" Pushing her long, chestnut hair away from her face, Molly fought the urge to snap that she had been up at the crack of dawn to do the autopsy he had requested and was now bone tired.

"Of course. John isn't available. I'll be examining the room of a young girl. Your insights may prove helpful as I work through my deductions." Sherlock's face was a quizzical mask. "Problem?"

What had John once called him? "The foremost champion of law and order of our generation." Molly scoffed at herself for thinking he had dozed off. She knew he wouldn't eat or sleep in order to focus his incredible intelligence on this mystery. The least she could do was go with him if he asked her.

Molly reached to pull Sherlock to his feet, intertwining her fingers through his. "No problem at all."

Sherlock's hand rested on the softness of her hip as he stood, whether to steady himself or as an overture she didn't know. He normally didn't consider his physical desires while working a case, unless he thought fulfilling them would help focus his thoughts—not a romantic proposition by any means, but Molly didn't need candlelight and flowers to reassure her of his feelings. She knew his heart.

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock slipped off his suit coat and tossed it on the couch. She watched as his fingers flew up the front of his shirt, deftly releasing each button, before tossing it on top of the coat.

"I have time for a quick shower," the detective announced as he strode toward the back of the flat, then purposefully looked over his shoulder with a gleam in his eye. "I assume you'll be joining me?"

~s~s~s~s~s~

The air in the Mesreys' crowded flat was heavy with grief. The family, exhausted and numb, sat huddled closely together in the front room. Akilah's mother, eyes rimmed in red, barely acknowledged the couple's presence when they entered. It was the victim's uncle who spoke to them in hushed tones, reiterating what Greg had told them: Akilah was a good girl, obedient and kind, who spent her free time volunteering at school. She didn't have a boyfriend—she was devoted to her studies. Quickly determining they would learn nothing new from the older man, Sherlock asked him to take them to Akilah's room. The uncle complied and gave them permission to search it.

Compared to what Molly remembered about her bedroom during her teen years, Akilah Mesrey's room was positively Spartan. No posters on the walls, no dirty clothes on the floor, no unmade bed. Tidy to a fault, the small room was decorated mainly with black-and-white photos of flowers.

"This room is the image she knew her family expected of her," Sherlock said more to himself than to Molly. "She hid her other activities well."

Molly knelt to look at the stuffed animals stacked in the corner. No matter what she may have done the afternoon of her death, Akila was still a young girl at heart. "Don't make it sound like she was the criminal."

"She wasn't what she appeared to be, obviously. It was your autopsy that showed she wasn't a virgin."

"Keep you voice down!" Molly hissed, looking toward the door in horror.

"The family has one computer kept in the front room so they can monitor its use," Sherlock continued, rifling through a stack of schoolwork on Akilah's desk.

Molly sat on the edge of the modest twin bed. "Without her mobile, how are we going to figure out whom she had beer with?"

Tossing the papers down absently, Sherlock thoughtfully tapped his pointer finger to his chin. "The mother was vigilant in tracking the girl's online activity. She would have also monitored the mobile. No, Akilah would have used another way to communicate with the boy."

Molly reached back to pull her still-damp hair into a ponytail. She felt rejuvenated after her unplanned shower encounter with the detective she loved. "Then we need to find her best friend. A girlfriend will always know her mate's secrets."

Sherlock arched his brows. "Why?"

"Because girls like to talk, silly. I'm sure Akilah had a friend she confided in."

"Alice."

They turned in unison to see the youngest of Akilah's brothers standing in the doorway, staring at them with interest.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked.

"Alice," the boy said again. "She wants to be called Alice. Only mum and Uncle Bes call her Akilah."

"Do you know who her best girlfriend was?" Molly asked kindly.

He shrugged. "Margaret."

"Do you know her last name?" Sherlock demanded.

The boy shrugged again. "No. But she lives two floors down by the lift."

~s~s~s~s~s~

It didn't take Sherlock long to deduce Margaret was Margaret Preston. The teen told them between hiccupping sobs that Alice had been secretly seeing Roger Jackson, a twenty-one-year-old youth who did odd jobs for the groundskeeper at the local golf course. Margaret often acted as intermediary between the two, although she admitted that once in a while Alice would text Roger on her own mobile.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock had tracked Roger down at his neighborhood pub. Roger sat in shock when they told him about his girlfriend's murder.

"I can't believe this is happening" he said over and over again.

Sherlock impatiently leaned across the table. "Yes, yes, I understand, this is all very distressing. But you have to focus. Tell me about the last time you saw Alice. Tell me about yesterday."

Roger regarded him blankly. "She told Mrs. Harris she was going to spend lunch working in the library, but she was with me instead. I picked her up near the school and we went to Whitestone Park. I brought her lunch and a drink. We ate and snogged for a while."

"That's it?" Sherlock asked.

Roger stared into his beer. "We did have a bit of a row."

Molly perked up. "About?"

"I wanted her to stay longer." Roger's voice was low and filled with unspoken emotions. "She said she really did have to go help out in the library. We fought. She told me to sod off and she left."

"So you didn't drive her back?" Molly asked.

The boy shook his head. "I wish to God I had. After I cooled down, I texted her even though she had said never to text her mobile. I told her to wait for me. But she said everything was OK because she had gotten a ride."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "Do you still have that text?"

Roger handed the detective his mobile. "She said she was fine."

Sherlock scrolled through the texts until he found the correct message: "'Don't worry. Ran into a friend. Am fine. He's giving me a ride.'"

"That's the last I heard from her," Roger said brokenly as Sherlock stood and rushed from the booth.

Molly murmured some condolences before chasing after the detective.

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed as the cold night air slapped him in the face. "A lead!"

Molly shivered. "Sally Donovan found out Akilah—I mean Alice—wasn't seen at school after lunch."

"Whomever she met had to be her killer." Excitement radiated from Sherlock like waves of heat.

"Where to now?"

"Lestrade's office."


End file.
